


Staverton, Hollywood

by amoama



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hazell is researching his next role as a Flight Lieutenant in the RAF. Bim Taylor is the pilot he's sent to study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staverton, Hollywood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Makioka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/gifts).



> Thanks to Naraht for the beta!

They set out from London at dawn, and hurtle past Oxford, heading west into Herefordshire. The road is bumpy and the car bounces heavily, jarring Hazell’s spine. He clutches gratefully at the canteen of coffee the hotel concierge thrust at him on the way out. It tastes faintly of America, warm and strong against the frosty morning. The mist clears slowly as they drive, the sun at their backs, and Hazell starts to feel a little more alive. Kitty has her slippers on still and her assistant, Lauren, is along to do her face and hair as they drive. There are another two cars behind somewhere, _the essentials_ , men and women who always appear extraordinarily busy thanks to the mere existence of Kitty Vine.

When she's a little more awake, Hazell hands Kitty some of his coffee and tells her, "It's good of you to come, Kitty, on your day off I mean."

"Don't you worry, a day off's no good to me just now, I stop moving I'll fall down and never get up again, won't I, Lauren?" she assures him, throwing her head round to face Lauren at the last minute. 

"Sure, honey," Lauren says, because her second job is Chief Reassurer to Miss Vine.

England has been creeping back into Hazell's bones for weeks now as they've toured the country putting on entertainments. Kitty's here promoting her movie; her contribution to the war effort is to buck up the troops and remind everyone why they're fighting. Hazell's here to see how the fighting's done so he can be convincing on screen when they start shooting.

He feels a little sick at the thought of meeting all these airmen caught up in Britain's greatest battle yet. (So go the newsreels). Being sent off to Canada for elementary flight training is one thing, facing up to his future is another. He was drunk last night, called himself a war tourist, tried to rip off his uniform. That was when Kitty had promised to come too.

She reaches over and holds his hand for a while, petting him gently, "What would Jim tell you?" she asks, but doesn't wait for an answer, "Don't worry, Miss Hazel, you've got this one in the bag?"

Hazell laughs a little, picturing their unusually congenial director of photography patting him on the shoulder and then going back to wink at him from behind the camera. He puts his head on Kitty's shoulder and attempts to let the rhythm of the motor soothe his nerves rather than thinking about every bump in the road.

The deal was flight training, four pictures and then the real life heroics. The studio had negotiated it, a rising star they wanted their dime out of before lights out. Someone at home had recognised the chance for some good recruiting publicity and wham-bam, Hazell was being marketed as the latest hero on the Hollywood chopping block. That was before he'd set one foot in an airplane. 

Someone, somewhere, has already written his story; all he has to do is live up to it.

By the time they shoot past Gloucester, Hazell has talked himself back up into his confidence. It's damned England that's the problem, not him. He's always been larger than life – an expression he's fond of – he fits well on the silver screen but not many other places. Certainly not here, never for very long at any rate.  
He'd always wondered, before Hollywood had come calling, what use he was going to be in life. It had been made perfectly clear, in almost all arenas, that he was a troubling sort: an embarrassment, a letdown, and a misfit. The kind of boy that gets other boys in trouble (being very different from the kind of boy that gets girls in trouble). Only fit for the stage. On bad days he still thinks that way, sitting alone in the darkness of his apartment imagining all the nasty things they're saying about him back home. All the voices he knew from _before_ ringing in his ears. He thinks of all the false starts he had and he lets himself be maudlin and wallow for an evening or two until the studio sends some poor assistant to drag him to set.

He can’t let it get to him for long. It would be far too self-indulgent and unappealing. He’s 25, and on the cusp of making it big. He considers himself the undisputed heir of the phrase, there's always one, and he likes to think of it as going his own way. He has a tempestuous history with this expression and has lost count of the amount of times he's overheard it in relation to something he's done, or not done, said, or neglected to say, some startlingly way he's moved, or looked, or behaved. He grew used to it, eventually, and there was a convenience to being that one, an abdication of responsibility; Hazell now likes to claim it as his own as a matter of course. It's taken a long time to learn to inhabit his own skin and he'd prefer to hang on to that, whatever the producers, directors, instructors and air commanders might dictate for his future. 

He and Kitty topple out of the car together onto the dew damp airfield and attempt to unruffle each other. The crowd from the second car immediately buzz around, flattening their hair and collars and fixing up their makeup and outfits. _Uniform!_ Hazell thinks sternly to himself, trying to hold onto the reality of their surroundings. Somewhere behind him Hazell can hear the clicks and crashes of a camera crew putting themselves together. Hazell wonders what kind of reception they can possible expect at 8am. 

They're scheduled to be here the entire day. Kitty might not make it that long of course, but Hazell is going to be subjected to _orientation_ in the name of 'good experience'. They are signed off as presentable and then hustled back into the car to wait for another 45 minutes while the crew flap about deciding logistics. Finally they are ushered towards the barracks area where Kitty is welcomed formally by a stiff looking commander and Hazell performs his salute as soberly as he knows how.

Hazell lets Kitty make her entrance alone and waits a while longer looking out at the airfield. The aircraft are lined up in neat rows facing up the grassy runway. There's both a peaceful and a menacing look to them that Hazell can't quite resolve in his mind. He knows how one of these machines feels under him, how fragile and how deadly they can be. He played First Executioner in _The Duchess of Malfi_ once, a long time ago, and strangled the Duchess and then Cariola every night for three weeks. He'd become obsessed with how his hands looked, thin and brittle clasped around the necks of the two actresses. He had felt how his delicate hands became weapons as the women made themselves vulnerable before him. The Hurricanes are like that.

Eventually he hears the clamour inside the hut die down and he ducks in through the door before Kitty decides to do something terrible like introduce him as Hollywood’s next hero. Something tells him he doesn't want to make too much of himself here.

The room falls silent as he enters, more of a coincidence than because of his sudden presence. The actors and the airmen are all looking awkwardly at each other, trying to figure out how it is they're supposed to behave in each other's company on duty with no alcohol present. There’s a flatness in the air where the drab atmosphere of the hut has slapped against the false brightness required by the cameras. Hazell's never felt more like an intruder on another tribe's sanctum before. He's at a loss how to play this one and he feels the panic start to build up in his gut.

In the quiet there's a dissonant scraping of a chair as one of the pilots gets to his feet. Hazell looks over at the man standing up and thinks, despite himself, _there's always one._ He stays frozen to his spot in the doorway because he feels like he's looking at his doppelganger: a future self he shouldn't set eyes on without bringing harm to one or both of them.

Flight-Lieutenant Bim Taylor is handsome in a sharp kind of way; alert and jumpy, poised to set you on edge. Hazell can tell they are built the same way, small and strong; perfect, he'd been assured by the casting director, for fitting into the pilot seat of a Hawker Hurricane Mark 1.

There has already been talk of Bim Taylor before they arrived so Hazell can peg him now without waiting for an introduction. "Oh, you'll know Bim," the adjutant briefing him had said, with just that sly emphasis that Hazell recognised of old. Taylor was one of just two men left from the original squadron, and, as such, almost mythical in character. The other was a chap named Lacey who famously crash landed his Hawker in the King's backyard and got treated to tea at the Palace. Bold men whom fortune favoured, according to air force propaganda. Perfect examples for a young actor about to take on the role of a lifetime, according to his Hollywood mentors when they sent him off on this trip. Hazell rather suspects the part about tea at the Palace might make it into the movie.

It all got jumbled in the telling though. Mostly it was just talk and Hazell hadn’t paid it too much mind until right this moment. Their physical similarities aside, Hazell simply knows, looking at the bright energy pouring off Bim Taylor, that this is the part he's been longing to play.

Taylor bows low, his hand fluttering out in a welcoming curl as though greeting the court of Charles II. His mime is so effective Hazell can almost see the wig and ruffles. It's graceful and gallant in a way that cuts through the terrible awkwardness of the situation.

"Gentleman," Taylor's voice cries out as though he is delightfully piqued by their presence, "so at last you have come to join us, welcome, welcome, enter, do; but please do not make yourself at home, we are, after all, just passing through."

The performance is perfectly pitched. All the other airmen laugh and roll their eyes at him. They seem relieved that someone has stepped forward to take control of the situation. The crew around Hazell chuckle delightedly and he can hear Kitty murmur, "So that's Bim Taylor."

Taylor rises out of his bow to cast an eye over the whole gaggle of newcomers, then he looks sharply at Hazell, appraising and all-knowing. Hazell has not felt so terrifyingly exposed since school. Taylor's smile is dangerous as he beckons to Hazell across the length of the hut.

Hazell compels himself to walk forward, remembering to saunter rather than hurry. Running is for when the siren sounds and no other time, he's learnt that much already. By the time he reaches the table, Taylor has unceremoniously dispatched another chap out of his seat to make room for Hazell. Another table is quickly set up around Kitty, where most of the audience hover now that the web of Taylor's spell has retreated. Only Hazell appears to still be caught in it.

"Sit, sit," Taylor instructs, "We're gambling. I've lost everything I own twice over, I need some collateral from you if you don't mind. What is your name?" Taylor rattles through his sentences without pausing for breath.

"Pilot Officer Hazell," Hazell tells him, trying to look like he belongs to the rank.

"Well, Hazel, I'm Taylor, the flight lieutenant, what have you got for me to bet with?" Taylor asks, purposefully mispronouncing his name the way all the Americans also do, but winking at him as he does so.

Hazell feels himself fall naturally into the ribbing; he's not interested in resisting Taylor's mood.

"Why, my modesty, of course," he replies, drawing a laugh from the other men at the table. Taylor leans over to ruffle Hazell's hair and some witty chap pipes up with a cry of "strip poker".

"I will do my utmost to protect you, of course," Taylor swears lightly. Then he turns his attention back to the game. 

Every so often he flashes his cards at Hazell, eyes flicking over him just as fast. Hazell has no idea how much of him Taylor is taking in, or how much he's giving away. Taylor’s cards are always terrible but he keeps up a lively conversation, smoothly distracting all the players from his tells. Hazell tries to take in his surroundings, the sparse hut, the boards stuffed with information: weather forecasts, aerial maps, and stern exhortations about healthy sleep patterns. Kitty is wearing a pale blue day dress and a white hat, her curls are perfectly bunched at the back of her neck. She's sat in the path of the sunlight so the air is a little hazy around her. She almost looks too fresh and wholesome, Hazell thinks, and then he remembers that the camera crew placed her there deliberately for just this effect. He looks back at Taylor, up close Hazell can tell his vibrancy is far more strained than Kitty’s, his energy is far more frenetic and much less convincing. Hazell has no idea how he's meant to convey that on screen, or whether he's even supposed to.

The siren sounds before Hazell has lost more than his belt and his flight jacket to the poker table. He feels his heart lurch up into his throat as around him men start throwing on clothes and equipment. He lurches to do the same before he realises that he isn't in training anymore and this isn't a drill.

"Death preserves your innocence! Such as it was," Taylor taunts him as he runs out to the airfield. Hazell isn't sure that he heard correctly, and hasn't a thought in his head to make a reply at any rate, but the high titter of laughter that tears out of Taylor lingers behind as Hazell stands on the ground watching him climb into his Hurricane. 

Taylor scrambles in red section and Hazell watches as the quartet take off in tight formation, Taylor out in front. In seconds they’ve disappeared from sight.

The waiting goes on forever. The camera crew pack up and Kitty takes her leave, pressing a kiss to Hazell's cheek, "Tell me how it all ends up, honey," she says.

"Of course, darling, if you really want to know," Hazell tells her, "Thanks for coming. See you for the show."

Hollywood rolls out of Staverton Airfield and Hazell feels mildly abandoned, stranded between two lives, not yet a flight officer, not quite a Specials Service star. He's back in that in-between space of not making sense and it's discomforting. He looks up at the sky and waits, thinks of Bim Taylor, his energy fixed now on flying and fighting. Without thinking about it Hazell reaches for the rosary that lives in his right hand pocket. His thin fingers move over it and his mind calls up a sorrowful mystery, Jesus' agony in the garden, asking the disciples to keep watch with him. It’s fitting and it keeps him from over-thinking things. He completes the Hail Marys and the Glory Be and starts in on the Litany of the Blessed Virgin before he finally spots Hurricanes dotting the horizon. He sends up a quick thank you before hurrying to compose himself.

The planes come back to land no longer in formation. One man, Stockley, in yellow section, has taken a direct hit. No one tells Hazell directly but the name is on everyone's lips.

Taylor has a slightly steamy fuselage but makes it back intact. He comes out of the cockpit in a complete mess. His body is shaking but he looks euphoric. Someone quickly hands him a drink and Hazell can track how the shock of bitter alcohol hits the back of his throat and settles him. Taylor nods at the aircrew as they gather around their girl, making sure she's in good shape. Taylor slaps one lad on the back as he strides away, ripping off his goggles as he goes.

For a second Hazell feels the madness of it in its entirety. The utter insanity of climbing into a machine like that and risking being set on fire mid air. A wild kind of jealousy steals over him: the victory over death that all these men have just accomplished is a phenomenon that can't be replicated anywhere else. These men are alive against all the odds and Hazell wonders if there is a freedom to be found there, in the face of death.

His thoughts run on in this way for a while as all the fighter pilots gather back in the barracks. There isn't really too much conversation - or if there is, Hazell ignores it, caught up in his own thoughts. 

It takes Taylor shouting his name to bring him back to earth, "Hazell, you owe the table your boots, get back here."

Hazell hurries over, startled by how level headed Taylor sounds. A man just died, Hazell wants to shout, but he doesn't, because no one else is and it's hardly his place. He takes his seat next to Taylor instead. Taylor’s face is a little wet from being recently washed and he runs his hands through his hair, sweeping it back into place. The game continues.

It lasts an hour and forty-five minutes, which costs Hazell both his boots and his cigarettes, before the siren goes off again. This time Hazell doesn't wait before starting in on the second sorrowful mystery. 

Altogether Taylor's squadron scramble four times before the order to stand down comes. The men heave themselves out of their chairs at the dismissal and lean into each other as they file out towards their bikes and motors.

"You're staying at Mrs Whiley's?" Taylor enquires, more for confirmation than information, "It’s the only pub for miles. We can walk it. Did they even give you directions?"

"They told me they'd send a car."

"No point calling for one now, it'll be hours, I’ll take you. The rooms are all right there. You can buy me a drink with all that cash you're making playing me on the big screen."

Taylor gestures down the road with a flourish reminiscent of this morning's welcome. It feels like weeks ago after a day spent alternately watching the skies in terror and watching Taylor's careful nonchalance in fascination. Hazell doesn’t stop to question whether he should be following Taylor. He’s watched him lead all day, in the air certainly, but also dictating the mood and morale of the men when they’re grounded. 

The pub is quiet and smoky. All of the customers tip their hats at Taylor when he enters; he waves genteelly at them, giving them the time of day. The barman is handing him his drink before he asks for it. The second drink is for Hazell. It's brown and strong and it seeps into Hazell in a steady, relentless, fashion.

Taylor does the talking.

"So, you're going to be me? It's rather a relief really, a legacy of sorts. I've been worried about that at points. What we leave behind and all that. There's not much for men like us to leave, is there? That's the aim, after all isn't it? Flying undetected?"

Hazell takes another sip and nods a little, more to get Taylor to keep going rather than to indicate his agreement. 

"I've never wanted to be anyone but myself, you know. Never envied any of the other lads at school, but then why would I? It was a terrible school. I've enjoyed my life, I want other people to know that. I've been unfashionably happy and, you know, for a while, I was utterly domestic in my degeneracy. Fellow pilot, of course. He blew away over Le Havre, nearly six months gone now, the early ones hurt much more. Not like poor Stockley. What does he get? A toast from men who will barely outlast him, his name on a few lists and a letter home? Well, anyway, happiness isn’t fashionable any more, is it? It's all become a bit too elusive. I'm not sure I'd get it right again. Cheery, jovial, happy, hysterical: it's all hit and miss these days. Like the Hurricanes, hit, miss, hit, miss. They tell me you fly, is that right? Will you fly as well as me do you think, in your picture?"

Taylor pauses on his question to throw back his drink and summon another. Hazell gamely tries to catch up with Taylor's line of thinking. 

"I don't know if they'll let me, for the filming. Probably there'll be a stuntman and I'll sit in the plane for close ups and such," Hazell tells him.

"So why did they bother teaching you?"

"For later, when I get posted to a squadron. Perhaps I'll try flying like you then." It doesn't feel real that he could be in the same position as Taylor in a few months time.

"You're joining?"

"After we wrap filming," Hazell nods.

Taylor regards him seriously, eyes a little watery as they struggle to focus, "You should request 3 squad," he says with the finality of a man who's just decided on something, and then adds ominously, "We'll most likely just miss each other though."

Hazell's hand twitches and he pushes his fingers into his pocket just to touch one bead.

"Do you mind me talking so explicitly?" Taylor asks with a sudden solicitousness.

"No, not really," Hazell admits, "You can be as explicit as you like in Los Angeles, you just have to resign yourself to everyone else knowing about it. There's no place like it for gossip." 

"You seem like a clever boy though, a survivalist, if such a thing is still possible. You'll make out all right, I expect."

"Yes, I expect so," Hazell agrees politely.

"Playing me is going to be the making of you isn't it?" There's a ferocious edge to the statement that makes it an accusation. Hazell looks down at his hand that's gripping his glass just that little too tight. How like an airplane are his strong, brittle, fingers? How like Bim Taylor is a Hurricane? Fierce energy burning up fuel faster and faster.

The only way to keep up is to do the same. Hazell drinks more and lets Taylor order more rounds. He passes out at midnight after Taylor herds him up the stairs to the guest rooms above the pub.

He wakes up a generous five hours later, with the face of his future hovering over him, hand on hip, his dark hair standing up at all angles and his eyes bloodshot.

"I'm here to investigate your claims to modesty," Taylor intones, and Hazell has to dredge his mind back to one of the first things he said to Taylor in order to understand his meaning. He's distracted by Taylor unbuttoning his shirt and sliding it off his shoulders. Hazell lets his eyes track over the muscles in appreciation. He feels so tired he's almost sick with it, and Taylor's body looms over him, swimming around in his vision. If there is a reason he should be surprised to find Taylor here like this, Hazell can’t for the life of him remember it. He's felt this coming since he first stepped into the hut this morning. He lifts his arms above his head in a gesture of surrender. Taylor smirks down at him and reaches for his belt.

"This was forfeit, I believe," he whispers as he tugs it out of the way.

Hazell is conscious of the intention to lift his hips to assist Taylor's efforts in pulling down his trousers. He can't be sure how much of the movement he actually achieves. It seems to do for Taylor though. Trousers removed, Taylor lowers himself down onto the bed on top of Hazell. He fits neatly against Hazell's side and kisses him softly, idly, all down his body.

At a certain point, Taylor looks up from his attentions to Hazell's chest and mention, "You can call me Bim, you know, Hazell."

Hazell supposes he must have slipped out a Taylor or two amidst all his heavy breathing. He neglects to give his own first name in return. He's drifting away into sleep again, lost in a heavy, undemanding, kind of pleasure.

Bim is sloppy with alcohol and Hazell's body refuses to wake up fully. They slide easily into each other's arms. There's comfort in the graceless acceptance between them, born of exhaustion. Their bodies speak an honest, open, language. It's a quiet recognition that Hazell doesn’t usually get to experience. 

Bim exhales against his neck and says something like, "You'll do."

Hazell tries hard not to feel horribly validated as he falls asleep.

He wakes again to find Bim Taylor fiddling with his rosary.

"Morning, my young altar boy," Bim taunts him, leaning in to kiss Hazell's cheek.

Hazell looks over at him, trying to decide whether to be shocked that Bim's still here, lying so carelessly in his arms. Usually this is when the men pretend they have somewhere else to be and really don't know how they'd gotten that drunk anyway.

Bim looks at him tiredly. "You're not going to pretend you don't know who I am, are you?"

Hazell shakes his head, "No," he scrapes out, mouth dry.

"Good," Bim says, smiling, "I didn't think you were the type."

"What type do you think I am?" Hazell asks, curious.

"My type," Bim says straightforwardly, "The kind who knows how to live in the moment. It was just this that had me worried." Bim gestures at the rosary.

Hazell shrugs a little, uncomfortable. He doesn't like explaining his faith to people, especially not someone like Bim who is most likely living out a rejectionist existence. It's not something Hazell has figured out fully yet. It's just something that comforts him sometimes; and at other times, it reminds him of his place in the world.

He smiles up at Bim, whose face is still pleasantly close to his own. "Sufficit diei malitia sua," he whispers against Bim's pale, thin lips. The Latin comes easily to him, drummed in far too deeply, far too early.

“Now, now, is that Catholicism or public school you’re speaking?” Bim asks, “Because I never learnt either.”

“It means today's evil is enough to worry about, which I suppose I thought was fitting," Hazell explains., and then amends himself because he doesn't want to be dreary, "But when a day starts like this, it can't be all bad.”

Hazell stretches out a little under Bim, just for the pleasure of rubbing against him.

Bim's fingers stroke carefully over his cheek; Hazell feels it when his hand trembles. Hazell knows it's not the moment overwhelming him. Bim is falling apart - even the most self-obsessed of Hollywood egoists could see that. To employ a further cliché: he’s burning far too brightly. But Hazell has a plan and it's not an unambitious one. He posits that if he can find the time to take Bim Taylor apart, piece by careful piece, perhaps he'll be able to put him back together in a more perfect form.

Hazell's learnt by now how to be a good partner in bed. He knows, thanks to bad experiences and good, how important it is to consider one's bed fellow and judge his character and his kinks correctly, to make it as fulfilling as possible. He doesn't have many limits for himself, not that he's found so far, but he's always felt the need to make sleeping with him worth the risk for his partner. He decides to begin actioning his plan immediately and rolls Bim fully on top of him, welcoming him into the v of his legs and running a hand down the length of him. 

Bim groans into his mouth, "I'm on duty," his tone full of regret despite the clear eagerness of his body.

"Well," says Hazell, "There's your motivation for today. Think of all the things I'm going to do to you. Plenty to live for."

"You think I'm lacking in motivation?"

"I think I want to see you again," Hazell counters.

"Aren't you due on set somewhere?"

"There's a show tonight and then three more and we're done. But there'll be some time and it's important, you know, for the film, that I learn you inside out."

Bim draws back a touch and gives him a slightly severe look. "There's nothing inside out about me. Don’t you know, I'm all out." He leans in quickly to kiss Hazell before Hazell can question this statement. "It’s now or never, my dear, because I don't make plans, so if you have things to do to me you better do them now." He runs his hands through Hazell's hair – a gesture intended to soften his words.

Hazell shakes his head; his plan can't work like this after all, their time is up. Perhaps when he gets back, if Bim's still going. It makes him a little desperate, like when there's a word on the tip of his tongue or an idea caught at the back of his mind, and he just can't grab onto it, but the consequences of not grasping this are fire and loss. It makes him feel crazy, as though he could do or say any manner of stupid things. Hazell suspects Bim has already popped some Benzedrine, his hard body is thrumming against him, and yet somehow he's ephemeral too, just out of reach. Hazell's arms tighten around him and he clasps him with his legs too, pulling them flush. They start to move together, a bit of a fight before they find their rhythm and when it's comfortable they start kissing and don't stop.

Hazell couldn't tell you how he knows he's holding something he's never going to get back. Not just Bim himself, but the idea of him, the life force of an illusion. Bim is skin and bone, muscle and organs. His lips are thin and bruising, his nails are too sharp and his feet are freezing. If Hazell had time he would start with Bim’s feet, warm his toes before attempting anything else.

Instead it's Hazell who feels like he's being saved. He knows now, the consequence of all this heroism, because it's here, taut and shaking in his arms, and infinitely breakable. He can play at being Bim Taylor and make a version of him live forever. He can lay it all out for the world to see – an apparition that's far more believable than the real thing. He may as well do it because, ultimately, either he has that or he has nothing.

When Bim comes against him, there's a blessing in it for Hazell. A sepia memory that's already curling at the edges. His own orgasm is a loss more exquisite than he has ever experienced before.

They don't linger or Bim will be late. There's a washstand and they swipe quickly over themselves and help each other into their uniforms. It's softly domestic as they fondly do unnecessary tasks for each other. Bim quirks a smile at him as he picks up the rosary again and pulls it over Hazell's head to hang around his neck. Bim kisses his clavicle above where the cross hangs.

"Pray for us sinners, will you?"

Hazell smiles as an answer. He will but probably not for the reason Bim means.

"Knock 'em dead, Hazell," Bim tells him when he reaches the door. They've tacitly agreed somehow that Bim will leave first and that will be that.

"You too, Taylor," Hazell tells him. Bim winks at him, smiling callously, in defiance of the moment.

"See you, Bim," Hazell can't help but call out as Bim opens the door.

"Goodbye. I'll make sure to see the film when it comes out." Then the shark-like smile is gone and there's another bow, sharp and understated now. Hazell returns it instinctively, as he would a salute. As he brings his head back up the door closes and Bim's gone.

Hazell leans back on the dresser and lets the emptiness settle around him. This won't do, he thinks. He can't let the loneliness get comfortable. He has to keep moving. Back to London to find Kitty, perhaps give her some of the details, just so it feels like it really happened. Then the film and then back again, to this. 

If anyone deserves to shine on screen, it's Bim Taylor, Hazell thinks, and he's just the man to make that happen, more or less.

He thinks about how he's going to ensure make-up put rings around his eyes to make him look exhausted, he practices the loose smile with the lethal flash of the eyes. He holds himself a little more openly, pulling his shoulders back; and then, on a whim, he bows the bow of a 17th century monarch in mockery of his non-existence audience. 

Even without a mirror, Hazell knows it's both a perfect replica and nothing like the real thing.


End file.
